An Establishment
by prone2dementia
Summary: The world finds out the truth about Alex – not through the writings of a nosy reporter, not through the actions of a vengeful crime syndicate, not through the protests of a guilty government – but through the admission of MI6. A tale told by negations.


An Establishment

i.

_Alan Blunt, Director of Special Operations at MI6, was killed—not by an angered rogue agent, not by a skillful hired assassin, not by a criminal justice system put to good use—but by a bus_.

Crossing from one side of Park Lane to the other had never proved to be so dangerous. Instead of reaching his intended destination, the prestigious Grosvenor House in London's Mayfair district, Blunt reached quite an unintended destination: the underside of a bus. Upon being hit by the vehicle, hemorrhage occurred instantly in his medulla; respiration and blood circulation were disrupted without delay, and he died moments later.

No thoughts were housed in his mind between the time of impact and the time of death. No thoughts; but there were certainly feelings. Surprise was foremost, trailed closely by irritation and hunger. He had, after all, been looking forward to lunch with the American official.

Said American official, a brittle man named Nathaniel Marquis, had not experienced the same eagerness. His palette harbored an unexplainable distaste for British food, just as his personality harbored an unexplainable distaste for British intelligence. However, these facts notwithstanding, Marquis felt distinctly distressed when he exited Grosvenor for a cigarette, only to find himself confronting the scene of Blunt's demise.

Mayhem lorded over the area. Inquisitive onlookers paused in their steps, halting all foot traffic. Confused drivers paused in their journeys, obstructing all regular traffic. Many eyebrows knitted into lines of shock and horror as the people registered what they were seeing. Many cars congested into lines of annoyed honking and riled shouting, for they were unaware of the situation.

In the midst of it all, Blunt's fallen corpse reposed, as gray in death as it had been in life. Staring at it with jaws a-gape, Marquis turned a very similar shade of gray as well. Later, he would remain in London for a week. He would wait through an investigation that yielded nothing (the bus accident had truly been an accident), and then he would wait through a funeral that yielded a curious attendee. Along with myriad others, he would stare at the attendee—a young, fair-haired boy—and wonder how the boy had been related to Blunt. Then, along with myriad others, he would discard such thoughts and return home, very much gone with the wind.

ii.

_The Prime Minister read Alex Rider's file—not out of acquiescence to his curiosity, not out of acquiescence to his advisors' urgings, not out of acquiescence to MI6's suggestions—but out of acquiescence to his daughter's plea: "Daddy, you need to stop underestimating kids."_

Taking advantage of the turmoil that resulted after Alan Blunt's death, the Prime Minister requested a prompt delivery of Alex Rider's file.

Reading it was like watching a train wreck. He was equal parts disgusted, stunned, and horrified. Yet he couldn't put it down.

Two hours after starting the file, the Prime Minister closed it, determined that Alex would receive appropriate thanks. Everyone in the world was indebted manifold to the boy, but no one in the world was aware of his missions. The only solution was obvious: publicity.

Not only would publicity engender proper gratitude, it would also protect both Alex and the government. If Alex were put under the public eye, his enemies would not dare harm him. If the government expressed outrage, the public would laud it for revealing and denouncing MI6's scandalous actions.

It was a win on all fronts.

iii.

_A power transfer occurred within MI6—not immediately after Blunt's death, not a few days after Blunt's death, not a few weeks after Blunt's death—but three years after Blunt's death, when Mrs. Jones finally discovered someone suitable for the position of Special Ops Director_.

Like most women, Tulip Jones possessed intuition. This intuition was exemplified by her unwillingness to accede Blunt's position. Temporarily, she would ascend his throne, but she knew that a heartless bastard would be required eventually. Contrary to popular belief, Tulip was not a heartless bastard. In the position of Deputy Director, she could soothe her stinging conscience with reassurances like _you have no control over what Blunt does _and _you are only the deputy _and _you have to listen to the head. _Now, a week after Blunt's funeral, there were no excuses. The man's directions no longer existed, and the only words traveling into her ears were that of the Prime Minister:

"Tulip, you understand me, right?"

The phone receiver was clutched tightly in dread-whitened fingers. "Yes..."

"You understand why I'm asking you to do this, don't you?" came from the other end.

"...Yes."

"Good. I'm glad that this matter has been cleared up. You will be able to schedule the press conference, I assume?"

Another acquiescence. "Of course. I...I will inform you when I'm done."

"Thank you, Tulip. Have a nice evening."

"You as well."

_Click._

The call ended.

Mrs. Jones sat in silence for a long moment. Unbeknownst to all, she sympathized with the plight of children, most especially with Alex Rider's. Resisting her heart was futile. Her intuition told her so. Thus, sighing heavily, she grasped the phone receiver once more and began to dial...

iv.

_The breaking news was told—not by the front-page headlines of newspapers, not by the persistent repetitions of newscasters, not by the loquacious hosts of radio talk shows—but by all three. And more_.

MI6 ADMITS TO BLACKMAILING FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD!

Exhaling peevishly, Jack Starbright replaced the newspaper onto the rack and reached for another.

THE TEENAGE SPY AMONGST US!

Again, she replaced it and grabbed another.

INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES TAKE ADVANTAGE OF YOUTH!

Replace. Grab.

ALEX RIDER: SCHOOLBOY AND SPY.

Replace. Grab.

BRITISH GOVERNMENT DENIES KNOWLEDGE OF EXPLOITATION!

Replace Grab.

TRIUMPHS OF A CHILD: A TALE OF DARING YOUTH.

Replace. Grab. Replace. Grab. Replace—

"Miss, are these not to your liking?" asked the owner of the stand, his dark brows tugged by confusion.

Exasperated, Jack merely shook her head negatively.

Leaning forward, the man studied her with questioning eyes.

"Wait," he said, recognition flaring over his countenance, "aren't you _her_?"

He gestured at a glossy photo splashed across the front page of a popular magazine. In it, a blond youth was struggling his way through a crowd of paparazzi. He was partially shielded by a pretty, red-haired woman who had her arms wrapped protectively around him.

"You are, _aren't you?_"

Because the stand owner's voice had risen with each word, pedestrians stopped mid-step to view the commotion. Like a flood, realization drowned their features in awe and disbelief.

"You're Jack Starbright!" cried an old woman. "Alex Rider's guardian!"

"N-no...," Jack protested weakly, backing away.

"But you are!" insisted a middle-aged man.

His hands gestured grandly at the store window overlooking them. Behind the glass, five television sets of varying sizes and colors presented news report footage. Synchronized upon every screen were Jack, Alex, and a mob of reporters. Across the bottom, on-going commentary was displayed through the captions**:**

_"...have no statements from the boy in question, Alex Rider, or his guardian, Jack Starbright..."_

"I – I –"

Stricken by dismay and overwhelmed by the multitude of people who were now fighting for her attention, Jack broke into a run. She scrambled away from them, over gray pavement and then down into a parking garage. Searching out her car, she yanked open the door, slid in, and breathed a sigh of relief. However, when the radio turned on along with her engine, the relief vaporized like water droplets in desert sand.

_"...many details are, of course, classified. What we _do _know of Alex Rider is, no doubt, the tip of the proverbial iceberg..."_

Her head hit the steering wheel.

v.

_Certain people were surprised—not by the revelation of Alex's job, not by the revelation of Alex's power, not by the revelation of Alex's abilities—but by the revelation that they, being obtusely unobservant, had not realized sooner._

In New York, Nathaniel Marquis' coffee grew cold as he sat in a café, gawking at the television screen.

"...was exploited by the Director of Special Operations, Alan Blunt, and yet was gracious enough to attend the man's funeral..."

In Manchester, the man once known as Eagle picked up toast and a newspaper. He promptly choked, spraying crumbs all over the words:

"...known as Cub to the SAS, known as a formidable foe to criminal organizations throughout the world..."

In the middle of nowhere, Wolf's radio transmitter dropped to the tent floor as his fingers slackened.

"Hey, Wolf, you still there?"

"...Yeah, Snake," he replied faintly. "Repeat that again?"

"The boy, Cub, was an MI6 agent. Apparently, his hospital stay for appendicitis was actually a hospital stay for a bullet wound."

"...And how do you know that?"

A snort of laughter. "We'll show you the news reports when you get back to base."

vi.

_Brookland students reacted—not with incredulity, not with shock, not with adoration—but with a combination of all three, topped by insatiable curiosity._

"C'mon, Alex!" chorused a group of four girls. "Tell us about your missions!"

Throughout the cafeteria, students buzzed excitedly, casting frequent glances in their direction. Ignoring their stares, Alex set his fork down with a sigh. He knew he wouldn't be eating any time soon.

"No." The word was flat, void of emotion and resonance.

"Aww, _why?" _complained the leader of the quartet, glaring at him through mascara-laden eyelashes.

With irritation dominating his dark blue eyes, Tom set down his fork as well. "Talia, just leave him alone, will you?"

"We weren't talking to you," snapped one of the other girls, Kelly or perhaps Kylie.

"And isn't it quite obvious that Alex doesn't want to be talking to _you?" _rejoined the boy.

But they dismissed his comment and turned back to Alex. "So? Why won't you tell us about your missions?"

A second sigh came from the boy.

"Do you know," Alex began slowly, his gaze unfocused, "how creative humans can be when they want compliance?" The bustle in the cafeteria came to a standstill as students stopped to hear Alex's words. "They can hold a gun to your head. They can cut off your fingers, one by one. They can dissect you alive or tie you to a conveyor belt in a factory. They can toss you in a tank with lethal jellyfish or dangle you over a river with crocodiles... Creative, right?"

The four girls exchanged hesitant looks.

"Do you think you could have survived those situations?" Alex's tone was soft and tired. "I did, and I made a lot of enemies for it. Now, imagine if the same enemies discovered that you knew all about my missions. Imagine that they wanted the information. Imagine that they kidnapped you, threatened you, your family and your friends... Do you think you could survive?"

The profound stillness of the room was broken when Alex unfolded from his seat and picked up his tray. "Don't bother replying. I already know the answer."

He crossed to the other side of the cafeteria, brushing off the eyes that followed him. As he dumped the food, a boy in his year approached.

"Alex."

The fair-haired youth acknowledged him with a nod. "David."

"I just wanted to say... wow. Just..._wow. _I can't believe that you did what you did. I – you—" David took a deep breath, then said, "All of us owe our lives to you, so... Thank you."

Alex's smile was small but present. "You're welcome."

vii.

_In the end, Alex Rider wished the world hadn't discovered the truth—not because the press was annoying, not because the fan mail was annoying, not because the constant bodyguards were annoying—but because he would never have another chance at normality._

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Thanks for reading. Review? (Author wanders off, muttering about stupid plot bunnies.)


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